


The Arrow Paradox

by demonsonthemoon



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Character Study, Clint Barton is a Mess (tm) and the women in his life are very important to me, Depression, Gen, POV Second Person, Relationship Study, in-depth depiction of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know how this goes. You feel it coming in the way your fingers curl lazily around your morning cup of coffee. You feel it coming in the way you sigh as you pour food into Lucky's bowl. You feel it coming in the way you pick the t-shirt on top of the pile because it's just easier.<br/>Like I said, you know how this goes.</p><p>Or: When depression hits, it feels like silence. Sometimes, you're lucky enough to have people there to fill it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arrow Paradox

**Author's Note:**

> Characterisation/story setting are based on a number of canons, mostly the Aja/Fraction Hawkeye run and the 2015 Secret Avengers run.
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> This is a literary depiction of an actual mental illness. In no way am I attempting to minimize the effects of depression. Neither am I claiming that this depiction will be an accurate description of what depression feels like to any other person than my version of Clint.

You know how this goes. You feel it coming in the way your fingers curl lazily around your morning cup of coffee. You feel it coming in the way you sigh as you pour food into Lucky's bowl. You feel it coming in the way you pick the t-shirt on top of the pile because it's just easier.

Like I said, you know how this goes.

But it doesn't help you stop it. You pour a second cup of coffee, but it doesn't help. You scratch Lucky behind his ears, but it doesn't help. The weight is still there when you walk out the door, like a pebble in your shoe.

You carry it.

You go to your scheduled briefings. You get orders. You join your team. You fight. You get hurt, and you make jokes through the pain. This is a well-rehearsed routine.

You know how this goes.

So when you stumble home at night, wincing as you climb the stairs, you don't even try. You open the fridge to grab a beer, then the pantry for some energy bars. You sit down on the couch. You drink. You eat. Lucky curls up next to you, warm and soft, stinking of life. You tell yourself that you're not leaning into his touch as much as he is leaning into yours. You don't know what to watch, so you don't turn the TV on. You drink. You eat. You drink.

You wake up sore, but it's manageable. You make coffee. You stare at your phone on the wall and sigh. Obligations. Fulfill them, and you're a well-functioning member of society. Fulfill them, and people leave you alone. You pick up the receiver and put it to your ear as you punch in a number.

« Hello ? »

Natasha picks up after two rings, like she always does. Her voice bears a practiced tone of neutrality. « Hey Nat. » Yours carries a drawl that's like a well-lit neon sign singling you out. You know that. « Are we still on for this afternoon ? »

« Sure. If you're feeling up for it, » she replies, sympathically.

You don't feel up for it. But you still don't know what to watch on TV. So you say : « Definitely. See you at three, then ? »

« Okay. See you. »

« Take care. »

And that's one thing done. One thing over. Of course, it implies another thing. It always does.

You know how this goes.

It feels like you have too much time and too little all at once. You would like to do something with your hands, but nothing feels right, everything feels like too much. So you just wait. You eat, mecanically, instant noodles with protein powder poured on top, because you'll need the energy. You wait. Then, finally, it's time to go. Your body goes through the motions of its own accord. Get up, put your bowl away. Take your bag. Put your shoes on, your jacket, walk out the door. Lock it. Put your keys in your pocket. Walk down the stairs. Get out.

The fresh air helps, a little, and the smell of pollution and rotting waste that hangs in the air manages to stir something in you. You breathe it in, deeply, trying to hold onto the sensation. Then you start walking. You think it's okay. You feel like you have things under control now. After all, you're out and about and enjoying what little sunshine there is to enjoy. You feel like everything's going to be okay.

You walk, and you take a bus, because you don't feel like driving. You get stuck in traffic, but it's fine. You stare out of the window and focus on nothing. You feel protected by a bubble of indistinct buzzing. You feel like you can breathe.

Then the bus stops, you get out, and suddenly there's sweat on your palms. You stare at the old gym. It's an odd place. It looks shady from the outside, but has a welcoming atmosphere to it. You know Natasha has rented the whole space for the afternoon, that it's empty. You know it's just Natasha inside. Just Natasha.

You rub your palms against your sweatpants and walk in. There's a familiar smile plastered on your face. Your muscles are doing their own thing, and you're grateful.

Your footsteps echo in the emtpy hallway. Natasha isn't there yet when you walk into the main room, and you check the clock on your phone. You're ten minutes early. You change right there, not bothering to walk to the changing rooms. There's nobody to see you anyway.

You think about skipping your stretching exercises, but you don't. Your body still isn't fully healed from the day before, so it wouldn't be worth it. You stick to your routine.

Natasha comes in a few minutes later. Her bright red hair has been cut short. You wouldn't have expected it to suit her, but it does.

« Hey, Clint ! Getting a headstart ? »

« Yo ! » you reply with a short wave, barely interrupting your exercises. She smiles a knowing smile at you, one that should feel warm and familiar.

« I'm gonna change and I'll be right back. »

« Sure. Take your time. »

She's gone for barely a few minutes, then back in black sports pants and a red tank top. She doesn't miss a beat and starts her own stretching routine, on a mat right in front of yours.

« Your hair looks nice, » you say, trying to release some of the tension sitting in your chest.

 _Just Natasha_.

« Thanks, » she says, smiling genuinely. « I changed it for a honeytrap mission, but now I think I might keep it for a while. At least now I don't have to worry about it getting in the way. »

You laugh. « Totally the reason I keep mine the way it is. »

The silence that settles afterwards is more comfortable, and you feel your body warming up slowly. When the both of you are finally ready, you wrap your hands, then step onto a boxing ring.

There's a playful smile on Natasha's lips, which you instinctively mirror. She's beautiful, like this. She's dangerous. And you know you have a type, when it comes to women, you know your heart should be racing right now, but it doesn't. Instead, you take a step forwards, fists raised. You focus on the fight ahead of you instead of on the woman.

You attack first, and Natasha dodges smoothly, counter-striking effortlessly. You block her easily too, push her back. For a few minutes, it's just like that, easy and smooth while you build a flow. It's not enough to stop your mind from wandering. Not for the first time, you wonder what could have happen between you and Nat, in another reality.

You want to feel that same rush you felt when you first laid a hand on her shoulder and she had you kneeling on the ground in seconds. You want to feel the awe again, at seeing something new and this deadly, at seeing someone so beautiful.

You dial your moves up a notch, actually making this a workout and not just a game. Of course, she catches up to your new rhythm quickly and fights right back. Your fists are moving quickly, precisely, but her guard is perfect, and when she extends her leg in a kick, you move out of the way at the last moment. It almost looks like a dance.

You land a hit.

It's barely a graze, really, as Natasha notices your feint just a little bit too late but still moves to counteract it. And then it goes quickly.

The fight loses its perfect rythm to become a messy brawl as each of you tries to actually gain advantage over the other. You manage to win, at first, forcing her back step by step. Then her knee collides with your ribs and she drags you down by one arm, kicking your feet from under you. As you fall, you aim a kick for her hip, which she doesn't have time to avoid. But then she catches you, flips you over on you stomach and presses down agains your back. It's over.

The only sound in the empty room is that of both of your breathing. It's loud in the silence. It crawls across your shared personal space in an almost physical way.

Natasha lets you go.

You immediately turn around to face her, sitting down with your hands behind yourself as support. You grin at her. « That was nice ! »

She frowns at you, lowering herself so that she sits cross-legged and can stare into your eyes. « Are you okay ? »

You sigh and turn away. In another reality, Natasha would still have been too perceptive. « I'm... okay-ish. Nothing I can't handle. »

She raises an eyebrow.

« It doesn't involve anyone else. Just me being me. You know how it goes. »

She nods. She does _not_ know how it goes, but she tries anyway. And she knows that if you want your space, she has to give it to you.

« Take care of yourself, yeah ? » She says as she gives you a hand up.

You laugh, self-depricatingly. Sure.

You press into a bruise on purpose as you stretch.

 

And then it's back to more waiting, except you don't know what for. The minutes tick by, and you're conscious of every single one of them. You go grocery shopping to stock up on beer and pre-cooked food. As an afterthought, you pick up a bunch of bananas and some fancy orange juice.

The cashier doesn't comment. You don't point out his forced smile. It's a perfectly civil exchange on both sides and it leaves you cold.

You drop everything you've just bought on the countertop, then realise you've forgotten the dog food. You want to scream, but don't make a sound. You go back to the store, and purposefully avoid getting the same cashier. It's not that you think he would recognize you or mock you. It's that even if he didn't you would feel mocked anyway. You feel mocked anyway.

When you finally get the damn dog food back to your apartment, you drop it too loudly, making Lucky jump and bark. Lost is the comforting hum of your overworked muscles. It is your head that aches instead.

You drink. You eat. You sleep. You wake up. You go back to sleep. Your phone rings.

Your phone nearly never rings.

You force yourself out of bed and grumble something that should sound like hello into the machine. You get a sigh for your troubles.

« Hey Clint, » comes Jessica's voice. « I hope I'm not bothering you ? »

« You woke me up. »

« Yeah, I kind of figured. » You can picture her putting one of her long strands of dark hair behind her ear. There's a nervous edge to her voice. « I need to bitch about some things. Can I bitch to you about some things ? »

« It depends. Can you hold for like two minutes while I make some coffee ? »

« Guess what, I'll do you one better. I'll call you back in five. »

« Yeah. Perfect. That's great. »

She hangs up, and you stare at the receiver in your hand before putting it back in place. You put the coffee on, then take out a cereal bar and a banana, before dragging a stool next to the telephone.

You have the time to take a few sips of coffee and eat half of your cereal bar before Jess picks up. She jumps right into things, not letting you say a word.

« So I'm really tired of that _mightier-than-thou_ vibe Hill has going on, you know ? I mean, don't get me wrong, that woman is _so impressive_ , she's like _the boss_ on thirty different levels, but I kind of hate her as a person ? I respect her. I respect her work. But she kind of makes my skin crawl. »

« Well, that's Maria Hill for you. »

« I know, right ? I can't be the only one thinking like this. It's just... I guess you could see it as a mark of trust, the fact that she doesn't feel the need to draw us in by making social connections. We all know she's playing us, but we also know that she's good at the game, so we do what she wants anyway. And it works. It works. But I don't _like it_. I don't _want_ to work like that. »

You let her go on, saying a few words here and then but mostly letting Jessica do the talking. You don't mind. Actually, you're oddly grateful. You sip at your coffee and eat breakfast, and feel like you exist just enough. Listening to Jess fills the silence in the appartment.

You wonder if Natasha has talked to her, told her to check on you. It's definitely a possibility. But Jess has also alway had a particularly good sense of timing. She manages to be there when you need her even if she isn't conscious of it. It's like some kind of magic.

She's a good person.

She's honestly trying, despite everything that was thrown at her constantly, and it gives you hope. Sometimes. On your better days.

You let her go, once. Or made her let go. Something along that line, and it does happen that you feel bitter about it, but most of the time you don't. Because your relationship wasn't what she needed, and it wasn't what _you_ needed, so really it had only been a matter of getting the passengers out before the car crashed.

It's better this way, you think. You keep your distance, but still call each other from time to time, grab a bite together after missions. Sometimes you can still hear what-ifs in her voice too, but you do your best to tune them out. It's better this way.

« ... and I know I still have a lot to learn. Of course I know that. But it's no reason to treat me like I can't do anything on my own, you know ? »

« Oh, trust me, I know, » you reply. Your cup is empty now and you wonder whether it's worth it to ask her to hold while you get a refill.

« Yeah. I know you do. »

And here it is, the hint of sadness in her voice that says _we could have been something_. She never says it openly, and you're grateful for that, though she says it all the same.

« I need to get a refill, » you state matter-of-factly. It's not a request. Still, you don't move from the phone, keep the receiver close to your ear and wait for her to respond.

« Yeah. Okay. Thanks. Thanks for listening. »

« You're welcome. »

« I'm gonna go now. We should hang out some time. Call me ? »

« Sure. Bye Jess. »

You're not gonna call her. You know it. She knows it. You both pretend otherwise, because it's easier. Because that's how it goes.

« Bye Clint. Take care. »

She hangs up.

 

You try to move. Try to get yourself to care about something. The conversation with Jessica is already nothing more than empty words in your head.

You get up. Grab your wallet. Put on your shoes, your jacket. You walk out the door. You lock it. You climb down the stairs. You walk.

You remember that Lucky needs to walk too.

You go back up, put on his leash. Walk back down.

You start walking again, following the rythm of your dog. It feels like he is walking you much more than you are walking him. You do not waste time getting over how pathetic that is. Instead, you both make your way to a small kiosk, where you buy two different copies of today's newspaper. You climb the stairs to your appartment once more, cursing them under your breath. You just want to go back to bed.

You say hello to your neighbours, try to find enough warmth in yourself to share with them. It's hard, but you think you manage. You manage something. You guess it has to be enough.

You sit down at your kitchen counter and pour the refill you promised yourself earlier. The coffee is already getting cold, and you consider putting it into the microwave, but don't bother. You take the leash off Lucky and leave it on the countertop.

You open the first of the papers.

You barely read through the big stories. If something big happens that needs you on it, you'll get orders. What interests you are the smaller things, the things nobody else cares about.

Well, you're not exactly sure whether you care yourself. It feels more like a habit than anything else to do this. To be Hawkeye. To be a hero.

You think of the kids you meet nearly every month, those who tell you that you inspire them, that you prove them they could be something.

You don't feel like something right now.

You feel like an endless chain of actions always repeating themselves, without aim or greater purpose. You feel like survival.

This will pass, though.

You're not certain that it will. There's no certainty in this world. But you know how this goes, and so far it has always passed. That's something, so you hold onto it.

This will pass, and when it does, you'll look back on yourself today and you'll want to punch this person in your face. At least if you _try_ to do something, the punching will not be justified.

It takes you a long time to finish the first paper. Much longer than it should have.

You look at your empty mug and wonder. Coffee or beer ?

You settle for a beer, which you drink as you wait for a frozen pizza to heat up in your oven.

You drink. You eat.

You go to sleep.

It's starting to get dark when you're woken up by your phone ringing again. This is the second time today, which makes it even more suspicious than the first. Maybe Natasha _has_ let the word out. Would be just like her, to care like this.

You pick up anyway, voice rough with too much sleep and not enough water.

« Hello. »

« Hey Clint. » Bobbi's voice sounds tired too. « Are you doing anything tonight ? »

« Was planning on sleeping, so... I guess not. Not really. »

« I've got this infiltration mission that I need to do, and SHIELD can't afford to give me a support team. Normally I'd be fine to go in alone, but I'm not feeling the best today, so it would be nice to have another pair of eyes on the place. Are you up for it ? »

You feel tired. So, so tired. But that doesn't mean anything. Tired isn't an adjective anymore, it's a second skin you're already too comfortable in.

« Yeah sure. »

« I'll let you suit up and meet you at your place in an hour ? »

You nod, then actually agree out loud when you realise Bobbi can't hear you.

An hour is way too long. You eat one of the bananas and actually drink some water. You spend five minutes arguing with yourself about whether it would be worth taking a shower or not. It might wake you up a bit, but you will need to take another one when you come back anyway, so really it's just a waste of water.

You don't shower, just pour some water into your cupped hands and splash it on your face.

You don't look at your reflection in the mirror. Or, well, you do look, even though you try not to, and then you do your best to forget what you saw.

There's a time for self-awareness and there's a time for doing stuff.

You change. At least with your uniform it's easy. You don't have to worry about choosing things that kind of match.

Though, to be honest, half of your wardrobe is stuff you bought because it was cheap and matched the other half of your clothes. You're not here to make a fashion statement.

Bobbi rings your doorbell exactly an hour after she called you. You don't buzz her in, just take your bow and your quiver and walk out.

She _is_ tired. You can immediately see it. You were a terrible husband, sure, but you still notice things like that. So you're still not sure whether Natasha called her, or whether she really needed help and thought you were the person that could give it to her.

You're not curious enough to try and find out which it is.

You climb into a nondescript blue car. It isn't hers, just one she borrowed from SHIELD so that you wouldn't look conspicuous wherever it is you're going.

She briefs you along the way. It's not a big mission, some AIM renegade guy trying to open his own business of law-breaking. There shouldn't be a lot for you to do. Bobbi will get in, incapacitate the few night guards, take a few pictures, access the main computer of the lab, then walk out.

You're just here to keep an eye on things and serve as back-up if the need arises.

The lab is in a conveniently isolated place. Villains seem to always think that isolation is the best protection, even though it's completely untrue. A populated area can be a nearly-perfect alarm system, always reacting to things that don't belong. It can also be used as human shield. To be honest, you're glad most of the people you fight still haven't figured that one out. It would make your job even more of a mess than it already is.

You leave the car a small mile away, and walk for the rest of the way, blending into the shadows. As much as you and Bobbi tend to make explosions every time you try to have a conversation, you work in perfect synchronicity and silence. Each of you knows its part perfectly.

( _You know how this goes._ )

The actual mission is fairly uneventful. You keep watch from a small distance, predicting the movements of the guards from the changes in lighting through the building's window. The only arrow you lose is before Bobbi even enters the building, when a guard tries to get back inside after his smoke break and inconveniently passes you.

When Bobbi comes out, she doesn't even have a scratch. She smiles at you, and there is slightly more life in her eyes now than there was before. You know she likes the thrill. Hell, you all do. All of you superheroes. If you didn't get at least some satisfaction from the surges of adrenaline, you wouldn't last a year in the industry.

« A job well done, » she says, putting away a small thumbdrive. « Thanks for the help. »

« Sure. It's not like I had to do much. »

« Maybe not, but you could have. And you came anyway. »

You shrug. « Don't sell yourself too short, Clint. I'm already taller than you in heels. »

« Not my fault if you buy your heels too high. »

Her energy is slightly contagious, so you end up with a genuine smile on your lips as you both walk back to the car.

She drops you off in front of your door and kisses you on the cheek. You watch her leave.

 

You sleep.  
You wake up, naturally for once. In your bed, for once. You stretch your hands over your head and hear your shoulders crack. You walk to your kitchen, and it already smells like coffee.

You stop, tensing up slightly.

« Hey Clint. » comes Kate's voice from the living-room.

You relax immediately and pour yourself a mug before you join her.

There's a huge bruise blooming across her neck, as well as a cut near her eyebrow that looks nasty.

You don't ask what happened. You know how this goes. Super-heroing.

« Need some time off ? »

She sighs. « Yeah. I do. I love my team. They're great. But after the week we've had, I really need a break. »

« I would tell you that you're welcome to crash here, but you've already made yourself at home, so... »

She doesn't reply with something witty like she would usually. Instead, she genuinely thanks him. « You're an okay guy, Barton. »

You huff out a laugh. « Right. Tell me that again in two days. »

« Nah, I mean it. You infuriate me to no ends sometimes, but I know you try. And overall, you're still a pretty good man. »

« Gosh, Katie, can we skip the heart-to-heart ? It's way too early for this and I might throw up if you continue. »

She puts out her tongue at you. You love her a little for it. You love the way she still acts like she's a kid sometimes, even though most people don't treat her like one. You love that she takes no shit from you, but also doesn't expect anything. If you and Kate need to fight, you'll fight. That's what you do. You're not kept together by rules, but because you share a way of life. Because the other can understand, sometimes. Because the other is an okay person, you guess.

« Honestly, it's not the best moment to talk about feelings with me. »

« Bad day ? » She asks. She knows how this goes a little too. She hates it. It drives her insane. But she tries. And, when you can, you try too. Try to make it at least a little easier for her. To give her a way out.

« Bad few days, to be honest. » You shrug. « You know the drill. »

« Yeah, » she sighs. « I know the drill. »

She relaxes back against the couch, her half-empty mug of coffee cooling down on the table. You sip at your own drink, standing up next to her.

« Can you still believe in super-heroes when you're a super-hero ? » she asks, looking at a spot on the wall, over the television set. « Like, really believe ? You know, not in the people, but in... I don't know. The legend. The myth. The idea. »

You wonder what happened last night, but you don't ask. Not if she doesn't want you to. It's her secret to divulge. But you're curious, you realise. You're curious, and that fact alone brings a small smile to your lips.

« I think you don't really have a choice, Katie. You have to believe. You have to have something to strive towards. »

« Urgh. That's such a lame answer. » She fakes disgust, even though you know she's thinking about what you just said.

Do _you_ believe in heroes ? You've been one for much longer than her. You've met a lot more of them than she has. None of those people is flawless, none of them completely lives up to the ideal. But together ? Together they're something else. Together they mean something.

So yes, maybe you believe in heroes still. Maybe you believe you can be saved.

« What did you expect ? I just told you I wasn't up for anything heart-to-heart. »

She turns towards you and raises an eyebrow, completely unimpressed. « You can try to tell me you're not a sappy old man. You can _try_. I know you, Clinton Barton. »

You roll your eyes. « And I know _you_ Katherine Bishop. I know you know better than to come to me with philosophical questions. »

She picks up her cup of coffee, putting her hands around it to try and soak up the remaining heat. « Yeah, I guess I do. » She takes a sip. « Isn't this a little weird, Clint ? »

You shrug. You're past questioning the weird things in your life. As long as they work...

« What, the fact that you're terrible at choosing your father figures ? »

« Oh my god, NO ! » She throws a pillow at you, which you catch before it hits your coffee and makes it spill all over the living-room. « You are so not a father figure. You are a terrible mess of a human. I'm the one taking care you of you half of the time. »

« So you're saying that _you_ 're a mother figure ? »

She bunches up her nose. « Please, let's stop this conversation right there. Do you want to watch season 2 of Dog Cops ? I'm doing a re-watch of the whole show. »

You shrug, sitting down on the couch next to her.

« Sure. If you can get the external drive running. »

You let her choose the episodes and figure out how the machines work.

You breathe.

 


End file.
